The presence

You lived so a long time in this house that you took his colors of them, his unhappiness, his old age. Parts without light behind worn wood shutters where nothing passes in an oppressive intimacy. To hide you, not to frighten, panic. You so often wandered in the staircase with the worn steps. To thread you, dodge you, delete you. Without goal, passing as a shade of rooms in rooms, first with the living room of rez of roadway. To breathe, not to asphyxiate, not to suffocate. You entered their lives without you to point out. Not to obstruct them, offend them, contract them. They saw you, just felt, sometimes not imagined. To worry, doubt, question themselves. In top, you took refuge in the lasting attic of long years. More not to exist, make you forget, to respect them. They aged, to accept your presence, learned how to live with before dying out in charge of this heavy secrecy. Not to reveal it, frighten, terrify. The house was never sold, it resembles to you, you resemble to him as twin sisters, you do not have in addition where to go. To exist, be in hiding, lock up you. Between sky and hell, in the purgatory of this ghostly veil which recovers you, you are lost in the limbs of your heavy last. To have liked more than of reason, to have adored at the point to kill, to be gone until the last end. One day you will be delivered. To fly away, curl up in the arms of your love.